Repairs
by Porsheee
Summary: A day after Masquerade, Cinder saves Kai from her master, who had tried to take things into her own hands, but Kai is unconscious, so he doesn't know it was her. This is five years later when Cinder has become a well known mechanic, and all Kai knows about her is that she once tried to kill him. Cover art by MF-Islands: /art/TLC-SW2-Repairs-587183740


Cinder leaned over with wood polish in hand, rubbing it into her leg's calf with a ratty cloth, cursing when she nearly got a splinter. She'd need a replacement leg altogether soon, but the money—or lack thereof—from blacksmithing would never cover it. The leftover gold she'd taken from her first master's dead body only covered the first leg and some food, and ran out faster than she would have wished.

THUD.

Cinder jerked, dropping the rag and hitting her non-prosthetic leg on a heavy metal box.

Looked up, her eyes first met a large, double handed sword resting on the table before her, and then the cloaked man behind it, only the expression of shock on his face visible beneath the hood.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was back there." His voice was low, but carried—a voice that any citizen of the realm would recognize instantly.

Newly coronated King Kaito, who, like her, had lost his left leg and, unlike her, had no place somewhere as dirty as here.

Standing, she fell into a messy bow. "Your Majesty."

He stiffened, glancing around at the crowded booths. "I don't exactly have any guards with me, so I'd like it if you..."

 _Not make it obvious you're the King? As if you aren't already._

"Right." She lifted her head, adjusting the gloves on her hands. They felt rough to the touch, and while she found them comforting, seeing his face she couldn't help but think back to the night of dresses and silk gloves over arms, smooth and soft and probably worth more than anything she owned at the moment. "What can I do for you...Kaito."

"I'm looking for Cinder Linh. Is he here?" He looked behind her, as if trying to find a man in the shadows of tools and scrap metal.

" _I'm_ Cinder, Your Hi—" She stopped herself abruptly, gulping. Were she still eighteen, still an assassin, she would have been able to fit this role with ease. But time had passed, not to mention half of what made her act was her costume, and in the brown peasant clothes she'd been subject to for five years, she'd never regained the easy confidence she'd relied on.

 _"You're_ Cinder Linh?" He took in her messy, tied back hair, the tattered clothing, the wooden leg. "You're not quite what I was expecting."

"Well, you're not exactly what I—" She stopped herself, adjusted her gloves again, and pulled her thoughts together. "How can I help you?"

"This sword belonged to my father, and it's a family heirloom, but it's been neglected over the years. My royal blacksmith has been ill, and doesn't look like he'll be recovering anytime soon. I heard you were the best in the Eastern Kingdom, so I was hoping you could repair, sharpen, and polish it?"

Cinder pulled the sword closer, tapping the blade, feeling it in her hands. Looks-wise, it was a rather normal sword, lacking carvings or decorative stones, but it was well crafted. That would make her job easier, and she'd be able to finish it quickly, if nothing else came up.

Hopefully as soon as he left, he'd be gone for good. Because the longer he spent with her, the more likely he might recognize her voice, or her hair, or the features he'd only been able to see briefly that haunting, cool night.

"I can do it, should be pretty straightforward."

"Do you need payment upfront?" He reached under his cloak, as if to reach for a pouch of currency.

"No, thank you. It will be my honor." She took the sword into her hands, turning and walking over to the wall with the other swords of its kind. She felt Kai's eyes on her back. Something was wrong.

* * *

"Say," Kai said when she returned to the front. "Do I know you?"

Her back stiffened long enough for him to know something was up, but he didn't know why. Because while there was something he recognized—mainly in the way she walked, the measured way her arms held the blade, something in the way light hit her eyes—he couldn't place where he'd come across her before.

"I'm just a blacksmith; it's doubtful." She leaned over, as if to organize her booth, though he knew there was very little on it. _Hiding her face?_

"Maybe I'm just imagining things, sorry." There was no use arguing. Maybe he'd find out at a later time. Probably nothing important...

"How will I get the sword to you once it's done? Is there anyone I can hand it off to who can get it to you?"

Normally, he'd direct her to someone in the palace, but there was still something curious about her. Something exciting.

"How long do you think it'll take to finish?"

"I don't know. I can probably get to it this afternoon, though there's no telling how long it'll take."

"Is three days fine? I can stop by then."

She paused, glancing up. He caught her eyes and smiled, hoping she'd smile back, but she instead returned her face to the table.

"Three days is fine. I can have it done by then."

He looked at her a little longer: the messy dark brown hair, the equally dark brown eyes just visible with her downturned head, the dirt and oil on her face, the rags of her clothing, and the leather gloves over her hands. Something was missing. Something didn't fit. But she was pretty—unusually pretty—and he thought he would have remembered her if he'd seen her.

Averting his eyes, he dipped his head, starting to back away.

"Thank you."

"It is my pleasure," she said, finally looking up.

Her nose... her lips... suddenly it clicked.

Before she could see his expression of surprise, he slipped back into the crowd, fast walking as soon as the people cleared up.

What had been missing was a pooling blue gown, a golden mask, and long silk gloves. Five years had changed her, switching one of her legs with a wooden one, taking away the shine in her hair and the lack of dirt on skin, and something else... Something about her was no longer scary.

Something was no longer scary about the girl who had tried to assassinate him, back in the garden, kissing him as she held a knife to his back.

And that made him more afraid than anything he'd ever witnessed before.

* * *

Kai paced his room, trying to get the screaming out of his head. She wasn't unusually pretty—she was unusually beautiful, and deadly, and she had tried to kill him, but she hadn't, and though he'd known her for only a few hours, he believed then he was in love.

But was he in love with the way she moved, the way she looked, how graceful she appeared in the dress, how the mask accented her eyes? Or was he in love in who she was, the mysterious girl with the golden smile, the girl who let go at first when they danced, the one who seemed so free?

He didn't know, and even more than that, he didn't know how much she'd changed. Five years was a long time. And he wasn't dead, which meant that she didn't want him assassinated—unless she feared the fate of the assassin before her, who managed to take his leg, only to be killed mysteriously while he lay unconscious.

But now she was marred too, in the same way. Maybe her injury had been what stopped her from being an assassin, and brought her to the blacksmithing job. It was hard to run when one of your legs was imbalanced, not your own, a weight sitting on the end of your knee without the feeling or control of flesh and blood.

Or maybe it was him. She dropped her blade on purpose. He sighed, stopping his pacing, reaching a hand out to steady himself on the wall when dizziness overtook him.

The darkness he had seen in her eyes—that small patch spreading out from her pupil, like water spilling across a table—was no longer there. A hardness replaced it, but nothing scary lived in her eyes.

Now that she had the sword, he'd have to return anyway. If it was anything else, he would have stayed away. But that sword...

He took a book from his shelves, flipping it open and walking over to his bed. No use stressing about it. He'd let go of it a while ago, so there was no use trying to bring back the feeling of loss of when he ran away.

Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could forget that memory when he saw her in three days, and ignore the pounding in his head when she spoke.

Because otherwise, seeing her again could confirm something he never wanted to admit to anyone, especially himself: that he was still hopelessly, recklessly, _foolishly_ in love with her.


End file.
